


Memoirs

by esama



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Epistolary, Gen, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Religious Discussion, Vaguely Lovecraftian, Weirdness, talk of autopsies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-20 15:53:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16558700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esama/pseuds/esama
Summary: Machiavelli puts together twenty years of notes on things seen and unseen.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Proofread credit to nimadge

When approaching great men, kings and princes and governors, one might bring them treasures to ply their good will. When approaching Gods, one might sacrifice those treasures in fire, and beg and pray for favour. And you can tell quite a deal about a person by what he calls a treasure.

There have been many things I have treasured over the years. Never money or things with precious trade prices, these are impermanent things with fluctuating values. Power, influence, military prowess and shrewd cunning when it comes to act of governance, these I treasure. The skill and willingness to deal with one's enemies and to make those choices that end in blood and irreparable changes to the society – any man who can make them and live by then had my respect. I have treasured this strength, perhaps foolishly, for most of my life, and in part I always will.

But knowledge, I think, is the greatest power, the greatest treasure. In ignorance of truths one is weak and frail – knowing, he is strong and might face opponents he might not have known he had. Knowledge moves society, shapes it in invisible, inexorable ways. It is not Cesare Borgia or Lorenzo de' Medici that will shape the centuries to come, their mark on the world is brief. The Brotherhood of Assassins or the Order Templar have their effect on the world, but this is a sly and secretive power, the change it makes is all but unseen. No, I no longer hold them in value.

It is the printing press that will change everything.

Knowledge written down and shared not only between the learned but one day between everyone… this will change everything. This is the greatest power, the greatest influence – and thus the greatest treasure I have left is the knowledge I possess and might write down.

This work is the culmination of nearly two decades of knowledge, of research and theory – and of my experience within the Assassin Brotherhood. It is not a book that one might publish, indeed there isn't a sane printing master on Earth that would bind this collection into a book. But these notes, started when I was only fourteen, are what I have come to treasure the most among my writing.

Burn them if you will – I will not pray for your favour.

* * *

 

Preface

I was conducted into the Assassin Brotherhood officially when I was sixteen – that is when I made my Leap of Faith from top of a church tower, executed to my mentor's – my father's – satisfaction. I knew of the Brotherhood from much earlier age than that, in fact, perhaps I'd never not known. My father, though he kept the rest of our family well in secret, could not keep it from me, I was too curious. Still, he held out as long as he could and I was fourteen when I was told the truths I'd already known and when my training officially begun. At sixteen I completed it.

I was a prodigy and a precocious child – something I have come to regret in adulthood. As a child I learned five years ahead of my peers perhaps, but by the time I had grown to the height of men, my peers begun to catch up with me. Not perhaps within the Assassin Brotherhood itself, there aren't many that are conducted into it as young as I was, but outside it. It is something I have observed in others of my kind, in children that learn to read prodigiously young and at young age accumulate the knowledge of learned adults. It's a grand thing – when you are a child. In adulthood, that advantage wears thin, thinner, until it no longer exists. A headstart, that is all it is. Eventually others catch up, and all your are left with is a memory of being better than your peers. Let that memory carry you into adulthood, and it makes you a very intolerable adult.

I say this both as an explanation and as excuse, because as time goes by I compare myself to the likes of Ezio Auditore da Firenze more and more and I see the difference.

Where I was conducted to the Brotherhood at sixteen, he was already twenty nine and his training took eight years. Then only nineteen, I led Ezio's initiation ceremony. Twenty years later, he has become the greatest Mentore we have had since the time of Altaïr and I have all but left the Brotherhood entirely, finding myself hard-pressed to keep up with his students, never mind the man himself. At nearly fifty, Ezio is at the peak of his power – not yet forty, I might yet be past mine.

It would be easy to be bitter, to have started with such an advantage and then fall so far behind, but I like to say I have grown wiser than that with age. So I hope that you understand and know that the arrogance you might read upon these pages does not last and is only a product of youth and the quirks of birth gifts that fluctuate with age. Like all things in time, they too vane.

My early initiation to the Brotherhood came with both its advantages and disadvantages. Mario Auditore was then our Mentore, and comparing him now to how Ezio leads us, I know him to have been a poor one. He was a lax and easily forgiving man more fit to follow than to lead – he gave us Assassins, those who were supposed to follow his orders, too much freedom and leeway. We did as we thought best and it was lucky for Mario that our thoughts lined up with his – and so we worked together more often than not. But it was only that in hindsight – luck. Sometimes I wonder what might have happened had there been more dissenting voices in the Brotherhood then – Mario was a military commander, but most of the Assassins then where thieves and courtesans, ill used to discipline. Had Paola, Theodora, la Volpe and Antonio decided to go their own way, what would Mario have done about it? Perhaps that is why he was so lax with us – applying military discipline to powerful civilians wouldn't have gained favourable results.

In either case, his easy way of ruling us gave me opportunities I know Ezio wouldn't have given me at such age had he been in place then. And perhaps he would have been right. For under Mario at the delicate age of fourteen I begun researching the Templars – and that search led me to places I sometimes wish I had not known to go. And to knowledge that I sometimes wish I could purge from my mind.

I do not regret what I have gained. But sometimes, the nightmares are still too much.

* * *

 

February 13, 1484

To my Honourable Father, Messere Bernardo di Machiavelli, with respect:

I hope this letter finds you and Mother well and that Primavera, Margherita and Totto are well as well. Please give to them my regards and tell them that I have made the journey in good health and spirits.

I find Monteriggioni1 smaller than I expected – but not quite as rundown as you warned me, Father. It seems that there has been some recent reconstruction and according to Mentore Mario, business is booming in the town again. The local bank has just been reopened and they are doing repairs in the local barracks, which, according to Mentore Mario, will open again sometime this fall. Apparently his student, the last scion of the Auditore, has taken it up to himself to renovate the town. There is still a long way to go, however – and the Auditore villa itself is far from presentable – but I suppose it doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things what the house looks like.

Mentore Mario took me straight into the sanctuary below the villa, where statues of Assassins long gone stand. He told me about some of them, but I admit I found good stories highly lacking in detail – when I pressed for more information he gave me access to his library. It is not vast, two bookshelves can hardly even be called a library, but according to the Mentore it is the most extensive collection of Assassin history and knowledge there is, so it will have to do. I have begun reading on the life of Altaïr Ibn-La'ahad, though I fear that I will glean more about the man from his statue than from what was written about him. Most of the texts here only sing his praises without detailing why he might deserve them.

There is, however, a wall of pages here, pieces of a codex, which, according to the Mentore, was written by Altaïr himself and might offer untold wisdoms. I am glad now that I chose to study Arabic as well as Latin, though due to the age of these texts translation will be difficult. I am certain I am up to the challenge, and despite not being able to show it to my teachers, it will do well as a learning experience.

More interesting I find is the texts of Templars, the reports written by fellow Assassins who have spied on their meetings. I know so little of our ancient enemy. Everyone always said that they are an atheist, amoral order of people, but at the same time there is this passage from report of one Ezio Auditore2 that had me fascinated:

_May the Father of Understanding guide us._

That sounds very much like a religious passage to me, a prayer even. What does it mean, who is this Father of Understanding? Are they referring to an actual person or a godly, perhaps saintly figure? They request his guiding, in a manner of prayer, which for an atheist order that knows the Truth of the world seems odd to say at least.

There is an unfortunate dearth of information here, but what little there is, I will make sure to read and memorise to the best of my ability. In the meanwhile, Mentore Mario will be instructing me in use of swords and knives as well as the hidden blade. I expect it will not take long for me to master what he has to teach, and I may read in between training as well.

I hope the weather in Florence remains good and that the family remains well. I will write again if anything of interest should happen, but likely I will be home soon and may tell you in person.

I remain your humble loyal son,

Niccolò di Machiavelli

[1] I was fourteen years old when I visited Monteriggioni, then the headquarters of the Assassins Brotherhood for the first time, during a break from my regular school work and my regular training under my father. It was my official introduction to the Late Mentore Mario Auditore.

[2] Though I had heard of Mario's student and knew something of what was happening behind the scenes concerning the Pazzi conspiracy, most of those events predated my joining of the Brotherhood, and like all fourteen year olds, I hardly put much stock to past events. The report of Ezio's I read was written in 1478, and to me at the time it was as good as ancient history. I did not realise until later that Mario's student and the Ezio Auditore of the reports I read were the same person. Nor did I realise how truly vital those reports were.

* * *

 

_This portion is an excerpt from a report by Ezio Auditore da Firenze covering the events of 26th of April, 1478, the attempted assassination of Lorenzo de' Medici and the successful assassination of his brother Giuliano de' Medici by the Pazzi conspirators._

...I don't know how long the Pazzi had been planning the assassination, but it sounded like it had been in the works for a long while. Francesco said that Giuliano's changing of plans and schedules kept stalling them, but they had finally an opening – the mass, where all members of the Medici would be in attendance. The Pazzi meant to surround the Medici and take them out the first opportunity they presented. Then, with them out of the way, the Medici Palazzo might be searched.

The hooded man3 seemed more interested in that, than in the death of the Medici, saying he would go there while the others attended to the Medici. I didn't place any importance to it at the time, the Medici were the priority.

I didn't get there in time to save Giuliano, Francesco had run him through several times by then, but Lorenzo de' Medici was injured only superficially when I reached him. I fought off his attackers and escorted him to the Medici Palazzo, which we found swarming with Pazzi soldiers and what seemed like mercenaries. We couldn't even get in. Lorenzo could not tell what they might be after, money perhaps, but it looked like whatever they wanted, it was important.

I left Lorenzo in the care of Paola's girls and set out to investigate, thinning the Pazzi numbers as I went. They had every floor is the Palazzo covered, every room – they were turning everything upside down in their search.

I eventually found my way into what I assume is the Medici’s private vault, and there I found the hooded man, and –

I cannot explain what happened. I have tried to put it into words a hundred times and I cannot.

I think it was a piece of Altaïr Ibn-La'ahad's codex he had. It looked familiar, parchment wrapped around a rod, much like the pages I took from my father's study. The care and reverence the hooded man treated it with made it seem more valuable than even that.

I attacked him to claim the page, and – I cannot explain it. There are no words I can find to describe it. All I can say is that something happened. That page, that piece of codex, when the hooded man opened it, there was something on it, it did something, but.

I still see it playing out as if I'm still there and he is holding the page, but when I try to reach for words to explain it, there is – nothing. As if the very memory drains away my will to explain it.

The hooded man escaped – I can't even begin to explain how.

[3] the Hooded Man here refers to Rodrigo Borgia, of course, though at the time Ezio did not know the man's identity.

* * *

 

27th of June, 1488

Many things have occurred and the whispers in the wind have changed in tone. A new page has been turned in the future history books of the Assassin Brotherhood. We have our Prophet, now.

Ezio Auditore da Firenze. I expected it, it was one of the likely possibilities – and far more favourable one than to find that Rodrigo Borgia would bear the title. The scion of the Auditore, the Assassin of Revenge who never puts his hood down. It is fitting, in a way, he has quite the reputation by now and to have it capped with the title of a prophet… Some men, it seems, are built for greatness, and Ezio Auditore has the shoulders to bear the title, if nothing else.

But to begin from the beginning. On June 25th, the Spaniard returned from Cyprus with the Piece of Eden the Codex of Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad speaks of so fearfully – if not quite as fearfully as it speaks of other things. We all gathered, some together and some alone – I went without informing anyone, but I think we all expected each other there. The moment was too great to miss. And at the end of it, there he stood, our Prophet, Ezio Auditore, with the Apple of Eden in hand.

Things will change now, there is no doubt of that. It has been centuries since our Brotherhood last properly possessed one of the Pieces of Eden, what little we know of them we have lost to time. Now, finally, we might learn of their power. And perhaps even answer the long standing question of the Father of Understanding.

That will come later.

Yesterday we conducted Ezio Auditore to the Brotherhood. It was planned, of course, long time in works, but the man has been working so well on his own with nary a helping hand that there has been… no need. Now, fate has forced our hand. The man who was never intended for the blade has become the most important bearer of it.

He is not what I expected. Over the years I have read his reports and heard of his exploits – his dismantling of the web of the Pazzi is nothing short of impressive. The man is dogged in his commitment to revenge. But he is not like I imagined. The man is… unexpectedly cordial, even jovial. Bit of a hedonist, even, judging by how easily Sister Theodora's girls coaxed him away. Not at all like you might expect a Prophet to be.

In a moment of lull in the celebration of his initiation – and it was quite the celebration – I asked him; "What was it you saw under the Medici Palazzo, when the Spaniard escaped the first time?

Never have I seen a man go so pale so fast. It has been many years since then, over a decade. He still cannot put what he saw into words. He tried at my insisting, and the effort seemed to actually strain him, like he was working against a sudden stammer, or lapse of coherence. He was not terribly drunk yet, but when trying to speak of it, it was like talking to a man fifty years into the bottle with alcohol having wrecked his constitution.

That moment he experienced under the Medici Palazzo is the only proof we have of what Templars call the Sigils and it was on a piece of parchment. Any information we could gain of it, any information at all… it would be invaluable. And Ezio is incapable of explaining what he saw.

This is our Prophet, the one Altaïr promised us in a truly terrifying piece of text. An assassin who took eight years of clandestine training and still got surprised at the final stretch, who only now bears our brand. Who cannot _speak_ of what he saw.4

I did not ask him again. We talked instead of the Templars, Rodrigo Borgia. Ezio says the man's eyes, when seen up close… they glow.

Perhaps he was more drunk than he appeared.

[4] Having seen a Sigil myself in person, I feel I owe Ezio an apology for this. I could not in hundred years put into words what I saw, either.


	2. Chapter 2

8th of July, 1488. Forlì

When we arrived in Forlì to hide the Apple as intended among its much sturdier protections, it was to find the city under attack. The hand of the Templars was ever present – it seems the Orsi family has, at least in part, joined their ranks. Brothers Ludovico and Checco had came to try and claim the fortress from Caterina's hands. Whether they knew of the Apple or our plans to seek shelter for it in Forlì, I cannot say. I suppose it doesn't matter now.

The attack here was repelled, in no small amount due to Ezio's efforts, but it wasn't without cost. We have lost the Apple. Less than two weeks after claiming it, it's gone. Forlì could not offer protection to it, in the end. Ezio lies injured in bed, healing from a stab wound to his gut and Caterina's people are busy reclaiming Forlì and there are no clues as to who took the Apple.

One might call this the menacing hand of Providence. All this effort and waiting, all this planning, and so soon it's all rend to nothing. Our Prophet, hallowed as he is, might yet suffer infection and putrefaction for his injury and die, so shortly after his revelation. The Piece of Eden is lost and we hardly even know what it is or what it does. No clue as to who had it, either, and Ezio is still unconscious and cannot say. In less than dozen days, we are back to where we started. The only good to come out of this is that the Orsi brothers, Checco and Ludovico, are dead – Checco being the one who stabbed Ezio. Forlì is free and hastily reinforcing its protections. It's a victory, at least.

The Orsi brothers...

I inspected the bodies after the deed was done and the last of their forces repelled from the city – we meant to send them to their families in respect, but we cannot now. I do not understand what might have happened to them, my field of learning isn't that of the physical, but they are…. altered.

Ezio told me, during the celebration of his induction into the order, that the Spaniard's eyes seemed to glow. I dismissed it then and I still do not know if I believe it, but having seen the Orsi brothers' bodies I now know something is afoot among the Templars, something I cannot explain.

Under their skin, there are streaks of gold, like seams of raw ore seen through translucent rock – only these streaks are straight and perfect, as if someone had drawn within their bodies with a ruler in hand. I cannot account for how it could have been made, I can't explain it – if I had not seen it, I would scarcely believe it.

We attempted to cut into the streaks of gold under their skin to see if they were truly gold, but when the blade hit the depth where it should have met the gold, there was nothing but blood and flesh there. For that which we could see with our naked eye, there was no physical evidence of. Even when extracting a portion of flesh wholesale, cutting under the layer of gold, we could not capture it. Though we could still see it through the dead skin, we could not find it with knives or tweezers.

Less than twelve hours after their deaths, the streaks of gold on their skin faded and eventually disappeared, and even the visual evidence vanished. Now the doctor who performed the examination had difficulty believing they were there at all, claiming they must have been trick of light or perhaps some paint that faded. Feeble mind quelling from what it doesn't understand.

I have sketches out the streaks I saw to the best of my ability here. They bear a disconcerting similarity to the designs on the surface of the Apple of Eden. And they remind me of something I believe I have read, not so long ago.

I will wait here until Ezio wakes and can tell us what might have happened to the Apple. If it's proven lost once more,  I will ride to Monteriggioni to take another look at Altaïr Ibn-La'ahad's codex. Perhaps it might offer some answers as to what the Templars are doing to themselves.

I believe the codex had a similar sketch of a hand with strange streaks drawn upon it.

* * *

 

_This is an excerpt from the Codex of Altaïr Ibn-La'ahad, translated by myself with the translation verified both by Late Mario Auditore and Maestro Leonardo da Vinci. 5_

We attempt to contain the radiance but too late, so many are already affected. The light draws on us and burns its way through our being – a brand that only death can erase, we have found. What it does we do not know, and try as I might, neither the Apple nor He offer any explanations. I am not sure they can. Or perhaps we cannot understand.

There are lines upon my hands that weren't there before. I look upon them and try to comprehend, but it escapes me with the gleam of light where the gold reflects. I do not understand it. I cannot explain it. I am changing in ways I do not know and I cannot stop it.

As much as I fear it, I welcome it.

We will work harder to contain it. All least in this we have His agreement – or if not that, then His merciless pity will have to do.

[5] Much of what we translated of Altaïr Ibn-La'ahad's codex escaped our understanding until the things it spoke of became more apparent in the present time. This section, we believed upon its first translation, was Altaïr realising he was growing old, and that time was leaving its marks on him. The man was sadly prone to bad philosophy and even more confusing poetry at times. Later on, when I saw what had happened to the Orsi brothers, I read this passage with new eyes and begun to wonder, were the other Templars, the Pazzi and their Allies, similarly drawn upon?

* * *

 

 _12th of October, 1501._ _Rome_

_Transcribing the questioning of one Filippa Acone, a maid once working in the Castello Borgia._

**Did anything strange ever happen in the castello while you were working there?**

I have worked in the castello for many years, Messere, I have seen many things, many strange things. I hardly know where to start.

**Any strange meetings the Masters and the Mistress of the house might have had? With other great families, the Pazzi or the Orsi perhaps?**

They were always having meetings with important people, servants were rarely invited. I wasn't working there when the Pazzi often visited, before the death of Francesco – but I heard of some of them from the others, the other maids and menservants. Madam Elettra, Francesco de Pazzi's wife, I believe? She lived at the estate for awhile, and Ciacinta was at the madame's side often. The Pazzi did not do so well after Francesco and Jacopo died…

**Were there places in the estate off limits to servants?**

Yes there was a place, two in fact, where servants were never allowed to go. Ser Rodrigo had an office that we weren't allowed to even clean and in the cellar they was room no one was even allowed to look at. Of course some did – a boy working in the stables, Emilio, even claimed he went in. He said there were circles drawn into the floor with gold, actual gold, melted right into the rock of the cellar floor, and that one day he'd go back in and chip away some and steal away with them. No one ever believed him.

**Did anyone ever confirm what he saw?**

No, it was just a month after he saw it that we were let go, all of us. The whole household staff was told to just leave.

**Can you tell me anything else about the room? Did the Borgia make some use of it?**

Every time they were home, they'd go down there. We could never tell what was they were doing there but it was something, that's damn sure. Sometimes we would hear singing or chanting, like they were  singing down there – Emilio said it was spells and that they were doing witchcraft, but Ser Rodrigo was a Cardinal and he's a Pope now, so surely it can't have been that. Surely.

**Did anything unusual ever happen because of these… chanting sessions?**

I don't know if it was strange, but sometimes we could see bright light shining under the door, showing through the cracks in the frame. We weren't allowed close and there was always someone watching the door, but we could see the light. Some sort of gunpowder or firework, we thought, flash powder in a bowl maybe. It always smelled weird afterwards.

**Weird how?**

Like the smell you get after lightning hits – I saw lightning hit a church tower once, it left this metallic, sizzling taste in the air. The basement smelled like that, like lightning had struck it.

**Did you see any changes in the people who were part of these light ceremonies?**

You mean like the Light of God? I – yes. Maybe. I'm not sure, but once, once I saw Master Rodrigo's hands and I thought –

**Yes?**

Master Rodrigo always wears gloves, you see, but I saw them, him and Master Cesare and young Mistress Lucrezia coming out of the basement and Master Rodrigo didn't have gloves on and – I must have been imagining it. But It looked like his fingers were glowing. Like he'd dipped them in paint and the paint was like light.

**Is there anything else you can tell me? Did you ever see any other strange changes – streaks of gold, perhaps, on their skin?**

No, Messere – though Giosetta, one of the handmaidens that used to help young mistress Lucrezia bathe, said that she has markings on her skin, but Ser Rodrigo scolded her so badly when he heard her telling that she never spoke to anyone again.

**When was this?**

Late in the year  before we were let go, I think. It has been a good long while.

**That was year 1487, I believe? Lucrezia would have been… seven then?**

She was very young, yes.

**Do you know where I can find this handmaiden? I would like to talk to her as well.**

I'm sorry, Messere. She died not a month later.

**I see. Is there anything else you can tell me? Anything else you might have seen at all? Even rumours will do.**

There were always rumours. They said that the Masters worshipped the devil and we're going to sacrifice young mistress to him, but I don't think it's true. It can't be true. I don't know what it was, but – surely man of God like Master Rodrigo can't possibly do something like that, right? He couldn't have become the Pope if he did something like that. And he has the Light of God, he's blessed beyond any mortal being now. It couldn't have been devil worship.

**I'm sure it wasn't. You said the whole staff what let go – was this in the year 1488?**

It was, Messere.

**Can you tell me what happened before you were let go? Did anything unusual occur at the estate?**

No, Messere. Master Rodrigo came home, and dismissed everyone and that was it – we were paid the last of our salaries and then everyone had that one day to get our things together and leave. Even the steward was let go. No one was told why.6

[6] The Borgia begun building high stone walls around the whole estate of Castello Borgia after this, which were completed at speed a before the year 1489 was over. As far as we knew, they didn't hire much in way of new staff since, and the one woman we know they had working in the estate afterwards was both blind and a mute, and never left the estate walls.

* * *

 

 24th of April, 1489, Florence

The silence unnerves me. It seems like nothing is moving, no one is acting – we hold our breaths on some great precipice and wait to take the plunge. Whichever way the wind will blow, there we will fall.

It has been almost ten months and, despite our searching, there is still no sign of the artefact. The only shred of comfort we have in this is that the Templars are searching just as are we. How they know we have lost the Apple, I cannot say, but they do not seek it from us. Do we have spies among the Brotherhood, or perhaps in Venice, or in Monteriggioni herself – has a wrongly timed discussion been overheard? However it happened, the Spaniard knows we have lost the artefact and yet he seeks it too. Not from us, but within the greater cities. Venice, Rome, Milan, Florence herself… the Spaniard has even sent his agents to Naples. Wherever the Apple will emerge, obviously he thinks it will be in a city with many people, not hidden away in the countryside.

And still nothing. He has not found it, and neither have we. I suppose we should be grateful for these small mercies.

There have been rumours of similar artefact in Spain, which I think have yet to reach the Spaniard's ears, ironically enough. Ezio has taken upon himself to investigate – he has already left for Spain and may his journey fare better than the one we took to secure the treasure we already had. Perhaps he might even gain some answers.

I will stay in Florence for now, where things are growing… quieter. Il Magnifico leads the city in steady peace, free of opposition. The Pazzi and all their allies died such swift and brutal deaths, and Lorenzo makes it no secret that he had some hand in that, and so no one dares to speak against him – and those who do, he either bribes or kills. A skilled statesman if there ever was one. Ezio chose his patron well there.

There is something in the air here that I cannot quantify. Perhaps it is my imagination, the texts I have been reading. Altaïr's codex, formerly so full of poetic nonsense, now hints at things I cannot fathom yet but know, understanding is just beyond my grasp. A truth I thought I once knew, upturned and made strange.

Altaïr speaks of a being I once thought was a symbol for the passage of time itself, both careless in its power and vital in its existence. He speaks of light that changes those who look upon it, a metaphor for wisdom and understanding I thought, but now I think it is more. Like the Apple of his writing has became a physical object of power, so are the deities and devils he writes of. And this passage, which he has written twice in the codex. It haunts me.

_Their line is gone out through all the Earth, and their words to the end of the world. In them hath He set a tabernacle for the Sun. 7_

I should go to Cyprus8, where the Apple came from. A territory of Venice now, it should be safer to travel – to see where the Apple was hidden, why, what it is about this island that started all this. Except, of course… I doubt it did. I should go – but I will not.

I have a feeling of terrible doubt. I doubt all I know now, the facts I have learned, the Truth I have based everything I know and believe on. I am a man standing on a platform with faltering base – waiting for the breeze.

[7] Psalm 19:4 of the Bible, written down in fervent hand by a Master and Mentor of Assassin Brotherhood. I cannot quite explain how badly it shook me, reading this in Altaïr's Codex and sensing some of its implications. I have not understood, but importance it had been given made me wary.

[8] Cyprus once housed a sect of the Templar order, who built a great library in Limassol, under the Limassol Castle. At the time of the Order's founding it housed much of their knowledge of the Pieces of Eden and those that made them, and, or so the story goes, actual Pieces themselves. It has since fallen into ruin, but for a while an Ottoman prince, a Templar himself, used it again for its original purpose. Prince Cem hid the Apple of Eden there, where it would later be claimed by Rodrigo Borgia and brought to Venice.

* * *

 

8th of October, 1489, Milano

To Messere Niccolò di Machiavelli, my friend

I hope this letter finds you in good health, and that Florence remains as beautiful as ever. I have had no word from anyone as of late, and shall take this lack of news as good news – or at least, lack of bad ones. I hope things stay this way.

I have been considering anatomy of late, and with our mutual, white-adorned friend still off chasing rumours in other countries and not terribly interested in more philosophical pursuits as whole, I turn to you with my musings. Feel free to ignore my ramblings, but sometimes a thought must be shared, and forgive me for choosing you as the target for these thoughts.

I have perused your findings in the home of our white-adorned friend, the report you and the doctor from Forlì put together, though it was some months ago. Since then I have conducted my own studies into the nature of human skin, wondering where one might insert something that might otherwise not belong. Like a tattoo for example – a mark impressed on the skin that stays even when the scar heals. I understand the markings you witnessed weren't scarred, they weren't forcibly inserted. But if not that, then how?

Have you ever witnessed the stages of a blood poisoning? How from an infection a red line begins forming, stretching towards the chest? It is not a mark made from the outside, but rather one the body produces itself, somehow, like a bruise or a welt, a mark of an invisible impact. It follows the line of a blood vein, I have found during a recent autopsy I had the pleasure of taking part in, which, though irrelevant to our particular case, made me wonder.

The lines you saw were straight, unnaturally so, you said, and so you wondered how they might have been artificially impressed upon the flesh. But you made no mention of a scar. So, perhaps they too begun at a certain point, like blood poisoning does, and they formed from a place of infection, rather than being pressed wholesale upon the skin from the outside. Rather than like the ink of a tattoo inserted by a needle, it could be a spreading contamination, like paint being sucked in by the moisture in a canvas.

I am explaining this badly, my apologies. But if you ever have the chance to examine the phenomenon again, please keep it in mind – perhaps it's a spreading influence with a point of origin. If you find it to be so, please do let me know.

Another thing I have been considering at length, concerning some other reports I had the pleasure to peruse in the place of our mutual friend's home – and something I have been plagued by since we enjoyed Apples together. We call a thing by a certain name and it has certain connotations – what might that mean for the rest that is conjoined with those connotations? Those old stories, the myths – the beliefs. That which writing names a fruit is made of metal - and also very real. What does it make those who supposedly took bite of it?9

And what does that make the one who grew it?

I am considering visiting Florence, perhaps – autumn time in Florence is beyond compare and I miss it quite terribly. Perhaps we might speak more of this at length then?

Your sincerely

Leonardo da Vinci

Ps. If you have heard of our white-adorned friend, please do let me know. He never does.

[9] In Bible the source of man's Original Sin is taking a bite of a forbidden fruit of knowledge from the garden of Eden. An Apple of Eden. Considering the fruit is real and also completely inedible, what might one surmise of Eve who picked it, Adam who accepted it – and the Snake, who tempted them to it? Leonardo and I shared many a bottle considering this subject at length. It was never a light topic of conversation – the alcohol was always required.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The amount of research this story takes is like triple than what I usually do, seriously. Also apparently in 1489, Queen of Cyprus just up and sold her kingdom to Venice. The more you know!

**Author's Note:**

> This might have a ship, or might not. It might also evolve into horror or it might not. I don't really know yet.


End file.
